Happy New Year! I'm so sorry that it's taken so long for this to get up, but there have been several factors outside of my control contributing to the delay. Thank you all for your patience, especially to you lovely reviewers! As ever, please forgive any mistakes in this chapter!
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Meetings and Partings
"Don't you think it must be lunchtime by now? We haven't even had breakfast."
Drenched in sweat and smeared from head to toe in soot and grime, Fíli brought his hammer down against the metal once more, not even pausing to look at Ehren. At first, his friend had been a little help, but Ehren was never one for forge work, and for the last three hours he had been simply sitting and smoking, and occasionally commenting on Fíli's form, or spieling off about some lass or the other that he had met back in the Blue Mountains.
"Not hungry," grunted Fíli, striking the metal again. "You can go."
"Well no, I can't." Ehren pointed his pipe at Fíli. "Last time I took my eyes of a charge, he ran away to Mordor."
Fíli stiffened, and for the first time he his eyes left the workbench to glare at Ehren. "I am not your charge. And Frodo…"
"Unfortunately for us both, you are my charge," said Ehren, unperturbed by the glare. "When Dwalin wakes me up at five in the morning and tells me you're down here on your own and the king wants me to watch your back, you're my charge. Five am. I mean really – we just got here yesterday. Couldn't you've waited?"
"No," Fíli growled, turning back to his work. "This is important."
"He won't be able to use it for weeks, Fíli, there's no rush."
"Ehren, if you're so hungry just go and get something to eat!" insisted Fíli, rolling his shoulders to try and ease the frustration. "I'm sure that you aren't being paid to annoy me."
"Not sure I'm being paid at all," grumbled Ehren. "It's more like babysitting the cousins."
Fíli's nostrils flared, and his irritation swelled into anger. "I do not need a babysitter, Ehren. I can look after myself, dammit, and this is a private bloody forge! There's never anyone in here! You're not protecting me – you're infuriating me! If all you're going to do is gripe and moan, I'll hire someone else to be my bodyguard! Someone who can just stand there and shut up."
Ehren stiffened, and stood up, his eyes burning. "As is your right," he said tightly. "Why would I care if you replaced me? Hired someone who didn't give a damn whether you ate or slept, as long as you lived, and they were paid? It's not like we are friends. We haven't fought together and drank together and grieved together. Oh, wait…"
Fíli opened his mouth, but Ehren shook his head and held up his hands, backing away towards the door.
"Don't bother. I'm sorry I couldn't be a better guard. Couldn't figure out what you needed. I'm sorry I tried to make you feel better and I'm sorry it didn't work. I'm sorry I don't know how to make it all sunshine and roses – I'm sorry I'm not Soren!" Ehren froze, but the words had been released, and they struck Fíli with such a force that he stumbled backwards, his hand reaching onto the workbench to steady himself.
"I – I'm sorry," Ehren gasped, his eyes round with horror, and the scorching reek of burning flesh met Fíli's nose.
The pain hit him a second later, and he gasped, wrenching his hand away from the searing metal that had burnt it. Ehren swore loudly and darted away, grabbing a nearby bucket and dragging it over. He seized Fíli's hand by the wrist before the prince could so much as blink, and dunked it deep into the cool water. Though immediate, the relief was not complete, and Fíli squeezed his eyes shut, praying that it might ease the throbbing pain. He could hear Ehren panting beside him, as he himself struggled to catch his breath, but as the seconds ticked away, and the pain continued to pulse, it grew quiet.
"I'm so sorry," said Ehren, his voice small and meek. "I was out of order, saying – saying that…"
Fíli sighed, shaking his head without opening his eyes. "No, Ehren, I'm… I am the one who should be sorry, who was out of order. I should not have shouted at you, said those things, I didn't…"
There was a long moment of quiet, and then Ehren spoke again. "How's the hand?"
"Sore."
"I'll run to the Healing Halls, if you like. Get a balm to throw on it, some bandages?"
"That would be nice. It is unlikely that anyone else will threaten me here, but the guards aren't far, anyway. I'll shriek like a damsel if anything happens. And on the way back you can pick us up a couple of hot pies from the market. Take the coin from my purse."
"Right you are, your highness."
Fíli heard Ehren walk to the door, heard him ignore the coin purse. Then, he opened his eyes. "Ehren?"
His friend turned, and Fíli's gut churned. Ehren's eyes were red-ringed, and heavy as lead weights.
"I would not have anyone else beside me. And I would not – under any circumstances – lose you too."
Ehren gave a weak smile and a small nod. "That's good to know."
Then he left, locking the door behind him, and Fíli groaned, letting his chin drop to his chest.
He had to do better than this.
He had to be better than this.
It was not Ehren's fault that Kíli was injured, and it was not Ehren's fault that Frodo had snuck off to Mordor, either. But it was Fíli's fault that he could not keep his temper, and it was Fíli's fault that Ehren had felt, even for a moment, that Fíli would rather see him dead, and Soren living in his place. That stung worse than his blistering hand.
He could not take his anger out on anyone else. It was not fair, it was cruel. It was not him. He had to be better than this.
He probably should not even be here. He should probably be with Kíli, be reuniting with the family he had left behind, helping Thorin with what had to be done. Doing his duty as a prince, rather than hiding in the forge. And snapping at his friends.
Yet he also yearned for more time away – for time when he did not have to worry about Kíli or Amad or Thorin, when he did not have to be strong and calm, and carry their fear and grief on his shoulders. He did not mind the burden – he greatly preferred to carry it himself, but he just needed another hour or two here, alone. He just needed to be alone with his work, to pour his heart and soul and mind into the forging process.
He just needed to think about nothing.
The snick of a key in a lock drew his gaze up, and he frowned towards the door. Ehren would not be back so soon, surely? It was not far to the Healing Halls or the markets, but it would take at least ten or twenty minutes for him to fulfil his tasks, and Fíli had expected him to take longer. He could not be surprised if Ehren needed time away from him, time to clear his own head.
The hair on the back of Fíli's neck stood up.
Though connected to the other forges, the Royal Forge was officially off-limits to all but the Royal Family, and those given express, written permission. As far as Fíli was concerned, it should be empty.
His good hand slipped to the knife on his belt, and he thanked the Valar that he was ambidextrous as he fought the urge to clench his right fist. Using all of the stealth he had picked up from Kíli and their hobbits over the years, he sidled towards one of the room's large stone pillars, shifting the bucket of water along the bench with him. He only paused when he had reached a vantage point, from where he could see the door, but those at the door would struggle to see him.
Almost the moment that he got there, the door eased open, and a grey-clad figure with a large, dark sack sidled inside. They turned, shutting the door gently behind them, and then let out a soft sigh, lowering the sack to the floor and raising their head toward the ceiling. The glowing light of the forges revealed the face of a young, dwarven woman, perhaps Fíli's age and height, though she may have been younger. Or older. Fíli had never been the best judge of age.
But he could tell at once that she was not high nobility. Her clothes were simple work-gear, and lacked the embroidered adornments or patterns that were more common among lords and ladies. His own trousers were his simplest pair, but even they had embroidery running down the seams, and around his waist and ankles.
Her dark hair was braided, and then thrown up into a messy bun atop her head – a style that was all but unheard of among high noble ladies, but he could make out a couple of golden beads woven into the braids. Her shoes, though well worn and fraying, did not look cheap, and there were a few rings on her fingers that caught the firelight when she brushed her hair back.
She was a minor noble, then, from a less established family.
Not someone that was supposed to be in the Royal Forge.
Her eyes fell on Fíli's workbench, and the tools still sitting there, and she stiffened.
"Hello?" she called uncertainly, in a lilting accent indicative of the Iron Hills. "Who is there?"
"I think the more appropriate question is 'who are you?'" said Fíli, stepping out of the shadows, and removing his hand from the bucket. The pain hissed up his arm, but he ignored it, staring down the woman, who stepped backwards. "And why are you here? This is a private forge."
The woman gave a careful curtsey, and though she bowed her head, she kept her eyes fixed on Fíli. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord. My name is Tûra, daughter of Ovie. I was not expecting anyone to be here – Lord Dain gave me permission to use this forge several months ago, as long as I did not get in anyone's way." She drew out a yellowing envelope from her pocket and walked over, passing it to him with another curtesy, before taking a step backwards.
Frowning slightly, Fíli looked over Dain's familiar, scruffy handwriting.
I, Dain Ironfoot, do request that Tûra, daughter of Ovie, be allowed use of a private forge in Erebor.
Beneath it was another sentence, in Thorin's handwriting.
By will of the King, Tûra, daughter of Ovie, may make use of the Royal Forge.
"I see…" said Fíli slowly, looking up at her. "May I ask why?"
Tûra smiled slightly, and turned to the side, and Fíli's eyes widened. Tied to her back was a baby – no more than seven or eight months old, staring at Fíli with deep, soulful eyes.
"It's just us," Tûra murmured. "Just us, and the main forges are too busy and loud – it's not safe to take her there."
Fíli's brows furrowed towards a frown, but he could not help but smile at the baby. "But we have care systems in place, for those who need their children watched while they work. Why did Dain direct you here, instead of the nurseries?"
Tûra winced, and her hand rose up towards the baby. "I – I did use a nursery, m'lord, in the Iron Hills, when she was first born, but… there was an… accident. I nearly lost her, and I – I could not imagine leaving her with strangers again. When I chose to leave home… Lord Dain promised that I might continue practise my craft without having to leave her behind."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Fíli, tearing his eyes away from the baby's sombre gaze to look back at the mother. "Truly, I am sorry. What's her name?"
A small smile slipped across Tûra's face. "Lula."
"A pretty name," commented Fíli, nodding at the child. "For a pretty baby." He stuck out his tongue, and the child's eyes widened. She had the same eyes as her mother, wide and dark, with the same deep brown irises and long lashes. They were soulful eyes, eyes that had seen a lot.
They were very serious eyes for a baby.
"Ab-ah-gah-ba!" she babbled solemnly.
"Ba-ah-gah-ba to you too," replied Fíli in an equally serious tone.
Lula screwed up her nose. "Be-bah-me-ack-baz-ka!"
"Moo-moo-vah-rick-da-sloop," replied Fíli, trying not to laugh. It had been so long since he had talked nonsense to a baby.
The baby stared at him for a long moment, and then her eyes creased at the corners and she giggled, her head lolling back. "Ah ba ga!"
Grinning, Fíli looked back at Tûra. "A wise child, clearly."
Tûra laughed, and Lula began to squirm. "A restless child perhaps. That is the only con now, to the private forge. She is beginning to want to crawl everywhere, and get out and about all of the time."
"Oh, no," tutted Fíli, shaking his head at Lula. "It's a hard life you live, little one." He turned his gaze back to her mother. "What is it that you do?"
"I am a jeweller," she said, smiling a little sadly. "Not that many people are buying now, of course. I understand it. It does not make sense to be buying jewels and trinkets in such a time. It's started to feel a little useless to even craft, but I cannot simply sit here and do nothing. Do you… do you know what I mean?"
His hand gave a twang of pain, and Fíli glanced over his shoulder at the work he had left on the bench. "Yes," he said quietly. "I do know what you mean." He swallowed, and cleared his throat. "So – when did you leave the Iron Hills?"
"Ah, what was it, Lula? About four, five months ago? We needed a change of pace. Something a little different. An orc army arriving a month after we did was not quite what we had in mind, but oh well."
"It's hardly the ideal welcoming gift, no," said Fíli dryly, and Tûra laughed.
"No, not exactly. But it is what it is, and we are here now, so we've been trying to do what we can to make the most of it."
Fíli smiled. "Good for you. But it must be hard – leaving your family and friends and starting new somewhere else is never easy, even without an army besieging the place."
Tûra shrugged slightly. "I would not call it easy, but we are managing as well as anyone else. I don't have much in the way of family – my parents died when I was very small. I miss my friends, it is true, but we write. The ravens can still safely leave the mountain, as it stands."
"Aye, I hope it may continue," murmured Fíli, his heart sinking. He hoped that their arrival would not stop the birds from flying.
It had not escaped Fíli's notice that she did not mention a husband, but he did not ask. It was not his business, and he did not want to bring up painful memories if she had been recently widowed or separated. Instead, he said, "I hope it hasn't been too difficult to make friends here?"
Tûra smiled wearily. "Everyone has been most kind. What of you, may I ask? When did you come to Erebor?"
Fíli paused, his suspicions validated. This woman had no idea who he was. Not that she should, of course, if she had never seen him – but it made a refreshing change to speak to a stranger without drowning in etiquette. He smiled. "Oh, two decades ago, now. My family were some of the first to move to the mountain – and by Durin, was it not a tip when we arrived! Dust and dragon dung everywhere."
Tûra laughed, her eyes sparkling even as her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Oh, I can imagine! I cannot lie, I'm not sad that I missed that. Where did you live before?"
"The Blue Mountains," said Fíli. "Have you ever been?" When she shook her head, he smiled again. "It's a beautiful part of the world. Erebor has long been my home, but Ered Luin has a special place in my heart. There are lakes there in the mountains that freeze over in the winter, with ice so clear that you can see the fish and the water-flowers beneath it as you skate."
"That is something I would love to see," breathed Tûra. "We have no such marvels in the Iron Hills."
"Yet they have their own charm," pointed out Fíli, and Tûra tilted her head slightly.
"You are well travelled," she commented.
Too well travelled, though Fíli grimly, but he squashed such thoughts to the very back of his mind. "Aye, that's a fair thing to say."
"I would love to travel," mused Tûra, and on her back Lula began to squirm again. "I've always been too busy. I-"
Lula let out an indignant shriek, and flung her head back and forth, and Fíli smiled sympathetically. "It's no fun being stuck like that, is it? If you would like, she may sit in my lap. That might be a little better. "
Tûra glanced at the wheel on the workbench. "Are you sure? I am keeping you from your work as it is…"
Fíli's own gaze was drawn over his shoulder, and he sighed. Ehren was right – it would be weeks before Kíli could use it anyway. He had time. "Of course, I'm very sure!" He held out his hands, and after a moment's hesitation, Tûra set down her tools and unstrapped the sling, passing the baby to Fíli. Lula flapped her arms at her sides like a bird trying to take flight and giggled, kicking out with chubby little legs. "There we go," murmured Fíli, jogging the child up and down until she shrieked with laughter. "That's better, hey? This way Ama can get some work done while we chat, if she would like to."
Tûra beamed, and pulled a small purse from her sack, leading Fíli and the baby to a nearby bench. They sat down, and Lula began to study the beads in Fíli's moustache, as her mother began to string beads of her own onto a bracelet.
"So," asked Tûra, her smile growing stronger. "If indeed you are happy to chat - where is the most dangerous place you have been?"
Despite the fact that he was blindfolded, Bróin rather enjoyed the company of the rangers.
Now that they were no longer prisoners, the tattered remains of the fellowship found that they were treated rather well, and the Rangers shared what news they had heard of the war, and other lands. They also shared merrier stories – anecdotes about life and love and even lice that made Bróin giggle like a six-year-old girl, or guffaw with laughter so strong it almost winded him.
Perhaps it was just because he had had so little cause to laugh for so long.
To share funny stories with friendly strangers seemed such a luxury. And the strangers did seem to be friendly – a man had his hands on Bróin's shoulders, and guided him carefully over the uneven ground. Toothy had been far from happy about having his eyes covered, but with Nelly on his back and Faramir holding a gentle grip on his reins, the warg soon calmed down. After an hour or so of walking blind, Bróin felt himself enter a cave, and they halted. A few moments later, the blindfolds were removed, and he blinked against the soft but sudden light. They were in a tall, thin chamber – one that had clearly been being used by the men for some time now. There were many other rangers bustling to and fro, casting curious and sometimes suspicious glances at the dwobbits, but never approaching them. Even Toothy was regarded with nothing more than cautious interest.
"Come," said Faramir, relinquishing Toothy's lead to Bróin. "I will show you a place where you might get some rest, and I will have provisions collected for you. I must catch up with my men." He gave a short bow and left, but he returned shortly afterwards with a couple of younger rangers, who passed out bowls of hot broth, and tankards of ale. Moreover, he also brought with him two sets of simple undershirts and tunics, and two pairs of green-grey trousers that had quite clearly had their ends chopped off.
"They will not be flattering, but I doubt it is with your sense of style that you will defeat Mordor," said Faramir, passing the bundles to Nelly and Bróin.
"Damn," sighed Nelly, even as her eyes shone. "There goes plan 'a.'"
Though they were far too big, the clothes of the rangers were remarkably comfortable, and Faramir helped them reduce the flapping of excess fabric by lightly winding some strong cord around their forearms, wrists, and ankles, and as they settled in for the night, Nelly took a needle and thread to her own new clothes to alter them further.
"It seems our time together will be shorter than I might have hoped," said Faramir, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Osgiliath is under attack, and we must aid them. We can wait only for the other rangers – we must leave at dawn tomorrow."
Bróin's stomach coiled uncomfortably, and Frodo gave a solemn nod. "Of course, you must be with your people. We will not overstay our welcome."
Faramir smiled sadly. "Would that we had met in kinder times, Frodo Baggins."
"We did," said Nelly softly, a fond smile on her face. "Remember? You were four, and it was Thorin's coronation, and we rode on track-cars and stuffed our faces full on cinnamon buns."
Faramir closed his eyes, but his smile grew a little stronger. "I remember. Boromir helped you set off a firework within the mountain. Mother gave him such a talking to when we got home…"
Conversation spilled out between them, easy as the flow of water, gentle as the stroke of a feather. Bróin's heart felt very warm, buffeted by fond memories and friendly faces, and when at last the time came to sleep, he felt better than he had since Lothlórien.
And then he was woken by a screeching wail.
He flung himself upright, and stars span before his eyes, and beside him Nelly drew her knife, and Sam leapt to his feet.
"Where's Frodo?"
Frantically, Bróin rubbed at his eyes, and as his vision cleared he saw that Frodo's bedroll was empty, and his pack was abandoned at the side. With a gasp of horror, he stumbled to his feet, and beside him, Toothy began to growl. Still, someone was howling – a gargling, choking wail, and it sounded familiar.
Bróin reached out, fumbling with Toothy's halter in case the warg decided to pounce, but he wondered if he should stop him. Had they been betrayed? After all his kind words and soft murmured memories, had Faramir stabbed them in the back?
"That sounds like Gollum, doesn't it?" said Nelly, and Bróin could tell that she was clenching her jaw.
Sam darted towards the doorway, but as he did the wailing spluttered to a halt, and a figure loomed in the door with flaming torch in hand.
"Rion," said Sam, threat dripping from his voice. "Where's Frodo? What's going on?"
The ranger stared at his hand and raised her eyebrow. "Lower your weapon, Master Gamgee."
"Oh, I don't think so," snarled Sam, and Bróin adjusted his grip on Toothy's reins as the warg stood up. "Where is Frodo?"
"Frodo is fine," said Rion, her eyes narrowed and her voice as sharp as the blade she drew from her belt. "Get your warg on the floor and sheath your sword. Now."
Toothy bared his teeth and Bróin shifted his feet into a fighting position, feeling his heart pump blood and adrenalin through his body as he prepared to fight, but he truly did not want to. The Rangers of Ithilien had been kind to them, had given them food and clothes and shelter and hope.
If it had all been a trap, if Faramir had turned against them…
His throat tightened at the very thought of it.
Sam shook his head, his eyes flashing. "If you don't tell us what's going on, you'll regret it."
"Do not threaten me, halfling," snapped Rion. "It is the shelter of my people you are standing in and our food in your stomach."
"And is it your lord who has betrayed us?" asked Nelly. "Because that is what it looks like."
"Lord Faramir would never betray his word, nor those he deems faithful," insisted Rion, disgust on her face.
"Then tell us what is going on, and why it is not that, and we will lower our weapons," said Nelly, an impressive calm in her voice. Despite everything, Bróin felt a swell of pride.
"Your Gollum friend was spotted swimming in the Forbidden Pool," replied Rion. "The penalty for this is death. Lord Faramir woke Frodo to ask if he thought the creature worthy of being spared, and they went to retrieve him. Gollum thought little of our conditions for his survival. He is being interrogated now, and Frodo is with him."
Bróin stared at the Ranger. "That… seems plausible."
"Well it's the truth. The truth usually is. Will you put your weapons down now?"
Sam took a step back, and slid his sword into the sheath on his belt, and Rion mirrored the movements. Nelly stowed away her knife, and Bróin turned to Toothy, putting his hand behind the warg's ear and scratching it gently.
"It's alright, boy," he murmured. "Good boy, it's safe now. Good boy, Toothy, down now."
With one more growl, Toothy slowly sat, and then slid his paws out to lie down, his eyes focused on Rion. Bróin sat down beside him and sighed.
They waited in heavy, awkward silence, until after a while they heard footsteps, and Faramir stepped past Rion into the chamber. Frodo was behind him, hand in hand with Gollum, who looked far more pathetic than usual, with tears and snot dribbling down his face. Bróin noticed a loop of rope tied around his wrist, and when Bróin followed it, he saw that it was tied to Frodo's belt. Frodo gave a tired smile.
"It's alright," he murmured. "Everything's alright. Just a misunderstanding."
"Cruel men make nice master tie poor Sméagol," whimpered Sméagol. "Poor Sméagol."
"They wouldn't have bound you if you hadn't tried to run," said Frodo sternly. "But it won't be for long. In the morning we'll be on our way, and you'll be free to run as far as you choose. Come, let's get a little sleep, while we still can."
Sniffling and snivelling, Sméagol glared, but gave no reply. Frodo laid down on his bedroll, and one by one, the others followed slowly followed suit, as Faramir and Rion left the room, and took the torchlight with them. Toothy continued to growl, his hackles raised, but slowly, Bróin was able to coax him down.
Sleep evaded Bróin for the rest of the night. The look on Sméagol's face had been murderous, and every time that Bróin began to drift away, the sound of shifting blankets or feet on stone would shock him back to consciousness, or in the silence his skin would begin to prickle, and he could all but feel long, clammy fingers closing around his throat.
It was a great relief when Faramir entered the chamber once more, and told them that the time had come to leave. At one stage, they had to be blindfolded again, and Sméagol kicked up such a fuss that Toothy snarled at him, which inevitably led to more hysterics from Gollum until Frodo encouraged the men to cover his own eyes, and Sam's.
"They mean no harm," he said firmly, and with a final whine, Sméagol acquiesced. It was only for half an hour or so that they were blinded, but Bróin did not enjoy it so much this time. It was quieter, and things were far more tense. They walked on with the rangers at a brisk pace which ended only at a small, winding path leading away from the road, where Faramir halted. "You are sure this is your road?"
"What other choice do we have?" said Frodo, slicing his knife through the rope that bound him to Sméagol, who sprang into the bushes like a rabid rabbit. "We must go to Mordor, and this is the only way."
"Well, I do not like it," said Faramir, shaking his head and staring at Sméagol. "Cirith Ungol has a dark reputation. But I wish you all the luck in the world. May we meet again, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Pimpernel Took, and Bróin son of Bombur."
They all bowed, and Bróin felt a lump in his throat. He had only just met Boromir's brother, but leaving him now felt wrong. He was afraid to leave – afraid to lose the protection of the rangers, and afraid that further harm would befall these men in the battle that awaited them. But he smiled, and said, "Pop into Erebor, if you're ever passing. Bilbo always has tea on for five."
Faramir smiled, and bowed. "It would be a great honour." But then the man's eyes hardened, and fell onto Gollum. "May death find you quickly, if you bring them to harm." With a sad sigh, he raised his eyes back to the others. "Farewell."
And as they walked away from the rangers, Toothy gave a sad howl.
Trying not to tut to himself like an old maid, Bilbo scurried down the long hall towards the Royal Forges. Ten and a half hours, Fíli had been there, by the account of the guards who saw him arrive at four in the morning. The morning! The thought of voluntarily waking at such an hour was more than enough to make Bilbo yawn, but it was now gone two in the afternoon, and high time that Fíli come out, sit down, and have a proper meal. Though Thorin had sent Ehren to check on Fíli – a rather unfair move, in Bilbo's mind, given that poor old Ehren had also just returned the night before – Bilbo doubted that the young dwarf would be able to coax the stubborn prince from his solitude. Or from whatever project was so important for him to work on.
So, Bilbo had torn himself away from Kíli's side, and gone traipsing through Erebor in search of the son who usually caused the least trouble. He had no guard himself, though he wore his sword on his belt. It was not far, and he had no intention of being gone long.
More importantly, he had no doubt that Fíli would need to talk about feelings. Dwarves, particularly the male ones, had a tendency to be bad at such discussions, and the last thing that Bilbo wanted to do was add an audience.
But as he approached the Royal Forges, he saw a very odd audience indeed. Ehren was leaning against the door, his ear pressed up against it, and a large basket on his hip. Bilbo could smell a couple of lukewarm pies, and he could also see a small healing kit, and he narrowed his eyes.
He strode right up behind Ehren without making a sound, and then spoke calmly. "And what do you think you are doing, Ehren, son of Joren?"
Swearing, Ehren leapt half a foot into the air, spinning around to grin at Bilbo. "Damn, Bilbo, you scared me!"
"And also asked you a question," said Bilbo pointedly. "What are you doing?"
Ehren's grin grew very wide indeed. "Fíli's talking to a girl."
Bilbo frowned. "A girl? Who?"
Ehren shrugged, still grinning as though he had discovered his own gold mine. "No idea. I went to grab some food and when I came back they were chatting away."
"And you decided that the best thing to do would be to eavesdrop on them?"
Ehren looked utterly unrepentant. "I'm his bodyguard. I had to stick around. And Bilbo, it's Fíli, talking to a girl!"
"I don't see what's so unheard of about that," protested Bilbo, folding his arms over his chest and fixing Ehren with his most severe 'father face.' "Fíli will talk to anyone, boy, girl or anything in between."
"But they've been talking for ages!"
"You are fishing, Ehren, and behaving worse than a tween hobbit lass," said Bilbo. "Now, stop violating Fíli's privacy and – wait, is that a healing kit? Why do you have a healing kit?"
"Oh, Fíli burnt his hand."
"And you've just been standing here eavesdropping!" cried Bilbo, his voice rising near a shriek.
For the first time, doubt flickered into Ehren's eyes, and his smile faded. "It's not a bad burn-"
"Give me that!" demanded Bilbo, and Ehren offered the basket quickly. "How long have you been out here – these pies are cold as the Sackville-Bagginses! Call yourself a body-guard! I am going to have a word with your mother."
Ehren went bright pink, finally looking suitably abashed. "Yes Bilbo. Sorry Bilbo."
Bilbo shook his head and sighed. "Go home, Ehren."
"But I wanted to see-"
"Go home," said Bilbo sternly, though he gave a small smile and squeezed Ehren's arm. "You're off duty now anyway. I say so."
Bilbo knocked twice on the door to the forge and opened it without waiting for an answer. Fíli was sitting on the bench by one of the forges with a woman beside him – a pretty dwarven lass with a shock of dark hair and deep brown eyes – and on Fíli's lap was a baby. The woman rose and curtseyed deeply. "My lord!"
"Good afternoon," said Bilbo, bowing his head. "Forgive the intrusion, I am Bilbo Baggins, at your service."
The woman's eyes widened, and she looked from Bilbo to Fíli. "Lord – Lord Baggins, sir?"
"Yes, that's me. Now, I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, but Ehren says you have been burnt, Fíli."
Fíli glanced down at his hand, which was submerged in a bucket of water, and Tûra's eyes widened. "Fíli? You – my lord, are you the prince?"
Bilbo raised his eyebrows slightly at Fíli. He knew that it was not the first time that his son failed to introduce himself properly when trying to get to know a new friend – particularly friends of the female variety. It was a shame to think it necessary, but then Bilbo had seen the way that some changed their behaviour in the face of royalty, and he knew it had cost Fíli more than one friendship in the past. He had seen the way it ground against Fíli to have friends refer to him by title.
Fíli gave a small nod, and smiled at her. "I am. But please, call me Fíli."
"I'm awfully sorry about his manners," said Bilbo, grinning at the girl. "He does know it's best to actually introduce yourself…"
"How is Kíli?" Fíli asked softly, and Bilbo smiled.
"Glad to be home." He did not add 'worried about you' in front of Fíli's new friend. That would be cruel. "But he has a lot on his mind."
Fíli nodded slowly. "Don't we all…" he raised his eyes towards Bilbo. "I should go to him." He turned to face Tûra, standing to give a short bow. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Tûra, daughter of Ovie. And you, too, Lula." He poked the baby's nose gently, and passed her back to her mother, who curtseyed low.
"It was an honour, my lord. Fíli."
Lula gave a little cry, and held out her hand towards Fíli, who smiled, and kissed it gently. "Be good for your Ama, now. I hope to see you both soon."
"You will," said Tûra, her cheeks blazing red. "As long as you wish to."
"I do," said Fíli solemnly, and Bilbo rather wished that he had stepped outside. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"Indeed, it was lovely to meet you, Lady Tûra. Please, pop around for tea if the fancy takes you, we take it every day at five o'clock," he said, giving a little bow of his own, and again Tûra curtseyed.
"It was a great honour, Lord Baggins."
Fíli smiled once more, and then strode towards the door, leaving Bilbo to scurry along in his wake. It seemed that Ehren had taken Bilbo's order seriously, for the corridor was empty when they entered it.
"Well," said Bilbo, when Fíli failed to speak. "She was a nice girl."
Fíli nodded absently.
"Shame she likes me better," said Bilbo casually, and Fíli frowned at him. "It was a 'great' honour meeting me. You were just an honour."
Fíli grinned. "Shut up, Bilbo."
"Now, that's no way to talk to your father," scolded Bilbo, and Fíli's face softened.
"How is Kíli? Really?"
"Worried about you. Worried about Frodo. Worried about everyone under the sun, I think." Bilbo sighed, and put an arm around Fíli's shoulders. "He'll be alright, you know. He'll be absolutely fine."
Fíli sighed heavily, his gaze dropping to the floor. He did not say anything, but he rested his head on Bilbo's shoulder, and they walked like that all the way home.
Merry's whole body trembled. He could not help it, could not stop it. He could only stand there, on the cold, stone floor of the stables, watching as Gandalf lifted Pippin onto the back of a great, white horse. Watching as Gandalf prepared to take his cousin away from him. Gimli stood at one side, and Boromir at his other, but they did nothing to stop the wizard. No one did.
No one could.
Pippin had to get out of there, and Minas Tirith had to be warned.
And no one alive had a horse that could keep up with Gandalf's.
So Shadowfax and Gandalf had to whisk Pippin away.
And Merry could not come.
There were unshed tears burning in his throat and searing across the back of his eyes, but he bit them back as best he could. Pippin did not need to see him cry.
As if reading Merry's thoughts, the younger hobbit looked down, and frowned.
"Merry?"
Merry nodded. He did not trust himself to speak.
Pippin swallowed. "You're… you're coming too, aren't you?"
Merry gave a shallow laugh, and slowly shook his head. "You never do listen, do you, Pippin?"
Pippin went very pale, and Merry battled the urge to leap up and drag his cousin down into his arms. His arms could not keep Pippin safe. Not anymore.
"Merry-"
"Remember," said Gandalf sharply, mounting the horse himself. "Those in the mountains must fight."
"You'll be alright, Pippin." Merry's voice felt very small and faraway, and Pippin's eyes widened in horror.
"Go, Shadowfax," murmured the wizard. "And show us the meaning of haste!"
"Merry!"
Pippin's cry struck Merry in the heart, and the horse sprang forward, shooting from the stable like an arrow from a bow. Merry felt that arrow embed deep in his chest, felt Pippin's absence so suddenly and absolutely that it took the strength from his knees. Vaguely, as if in a dream, he felt Gimli's hand on his arm, but as the dust began to settle Merry could not take any more, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard cries of his name, heard people give chase, but he did not stop. He tore through Edoras and flung himself up the stairs to its wall, scrambling with hands and feet like a child until he reached the top. Like a child, he was too small to see over most of the wall, but he quickly found a lower section and threw himself against it.
Already, Gandalf and Shadowfax and Pippin were the size of toys, shrinking into the horizon, and with a lump in his throat, Merry silently accepted that it was true – even Denahi would struggle to keep up with such a horse. He felt a hand on his back, and another on his shoulder, and he blinked back tears, resting his chin on the wooden fence.
"He's never been away from me before," he murmured. "Not… not since Mirkwood."
He felt Gimli shiver beside him, and the hand on his shoulder tightened almost painfully. The hand on his back was softer.
"Gandalf is with him," said Aragorn. "He will not let any harm befall Pippin. And if I have learnt anything from these adventures, it is that hobbits are a most hardy folk."
Gimli snorted. "Fool hardy, maybe."
A small smile tugged at Merry's cheeks. "Well, he is a Took."
"He will be alright, Merry," said Boromir. "Minas Tirith may not be a fortress of the strength of Erebor, but my father is a good leader, and he is no stranger to tactics of war. When Gandalf delivers these tidings, my father will secure the city, and the safety of everyone inside it. You will see Pippin again."
Merry said nothing. He knew that, despite all of Boromir's promises and Aragorn's reassurances, no one could be sure of anything anymore. The white dot of Shadowfax vanished beneath a hill, and Merry closed his eyes. There was a hollow sort of desolation in his chest, a feeling of resigned loneliness. It was like he was missing a limb.
A rippled of startled murmurs spread out behind him, and then a warm, wet nose nuzzled against his palm, and Merry tore his eyes away from the skyline to look at Denahi.
"Good boy," he murmured, resting his forehead on the wolf's, and pretending that he was not crying. "Good boy."
Denahi had caused quite the stir in Edoras. The men watched him with wary eyes, keeping their hands on their weapons as they passed, and the women hurried away and shut their doors at the very sight of him. Funnily enough, the horses did not seem to mind him too much, and neither did the children that remained in the city. Ever since Merry and Pippin arrived and promised that he was friendly, the youngest citizens of Edoras had wanted nothing more than to pet Denahi, and throw their balls his way, though the adults would always usher them away.
Merry understood why Théoden had so vehemently denied his son's request for a wolf so many years ago on that diplomatic mission to Erebor. But then Merry remembered that Théoden's son was dead – that the golden haired boy he had laughed with and played with had been cut down by orcs.
Alongside so many others.
Merry took a deep breath, and forced his head to rise. Denahi licked his chin, and Merry turned to the others. "What do we do now?"
Aragorn looked at Boromir, who sighed. "We wait. When Gondor calls for aid, Rohan will answer, and we will be among them."
"We wait?"
"Yes."
Merry folded his arms across his chest. "Why should we wait? We should muster an army, march for Gondor! It makes no sense just sitting around and waiting for the enemy to make a move!"
"Mustering an army takes time, Merry," explained Aragorn, an infuriating level of patience in his voice. "Rohan is not like Erebor – its people are spread across vast lands, and its soldiers and spread amongst them. And Théoden has not yet decided if he will muster an army and ride to war. He must do what he thinks is right for his people. He may deem that defence is a better strategy – if he rides forth with his army, he leaves the women and children of his lands defenceless, and vulnerable. It is not a simple choice, Merry."
"But we will ride for Minas Tirith, won't we?" insisted Merry, meeting the eyes of Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli in turn. "Whether or not Rohan is with us, we have to do something!"
Boromir sighed heavily. "I do not think that Théoden will forsake Gondor, but if he feels it is necessary to do so, I will ride with you. But first, we must wait."
Gimli narrowed his eyes and Boromir, and then turned to Merry, grabbing his shoulder roughly and then pointing his finger in the hobbit's face. "If you even think about sneaking off to war without me, I will kick your sorry hobbit backside so hard that you fly home to Erebor, you hear me?"
Merry smiled a little. "I hear you, Gimli."
"Good. Now, let's find our if the elf's awake yet. He's been napping long enough! And where's Eómer? I want to know where these men keep their ale…"
Osgiliath was burning. It was less than a day since they had bidden farewell to Frodo Baggins and his party, and despite herself, Rion almost missed them. Though the tale of their adventures had been far from pleasant, their anecdotes had been rather amusing – she could not remember the last time she had seen Faramir or Madril smile, but the strange little party had coaxed laughs from them both. It had almost been like having a break from the war.
But that respite was over. When night had fallen, they had seen the fires of Osgiliath for the first time, and Faramir had been forced into the hardest decision Rion had ever seen the young lord make. Rion understood the choice that he had made, as did Madril – all the men understood – but she did not think that understanding much comforted Faramir.
Not when he had to leave them behind.
For Faramir had to report to Denethor – news of the Ring of Power and of the armies marching through Ithilien to the aid of Mordor had to get to Minas Tirith. He would almost be at the city by now – he had taken their fastest horse, and left Rion and Madril to lead their troops to Osgiliath as reinforcements.
But as the sun bled over the horizon to drag in the day, and the rangers entered into the Western Side of the city, Rion feared they were too late. Smoke was rising from the city on the Eastern Bank, and she knew that their last defences there had fallen.
The last bridge had also been destroyed, though by whom, she could not tell. They slipped quickly and silently through empty streets, and the city around them made no sound. There was nothing but the soft lapping of the water on the bank when they drew close to the river. It was as though Osgiliath had been taken by ghosts.
Perhaps they really were too late.
The thought opened a deep well of fear inside Rion, and her dread grew with every dusty step that she took. It was stronger than the stench of death, and the brittle silence around them, and the searing, ceaseless fog. The fear was stronger than everything – everything except the desire to get their people away from such a place.
Raising a finger to her lips, she led them deeper into the city, expecting any second to come across the corpses of their kin, until they reached what had once been the city hall. More recently, it had been a base of war. She glanced at Madril, who nodded, and then she pushed open the door.
At once a sword was thrust towards her face, but then came a gasp. "Master Rion, sir!" The sword fell away, and a young soldier bowed before her. Dirt and blood was smeared over his armour, and behind him in the great hall were no more than a hundred warriors.
"Where are the others?" asked Madril, and the soldier shook his head.
"We are all that is left. How many are you?"
"Fifty," replied Rion tightly. She did not need to glance at Madril to know what he was thinking.
One hundred and fifty men could not hold Osgiliath.
She sent in the rest of the Rangers, and as they distributed food and news to the other soldiers, Madril pulled Rion aside.
"This is dire, lad," he said in a low voice. "We cannot hold the city – not like this. We will be overrun in but one battle."
"Yes, but we do not have the authority to issue a retreat," she murmured back. "Lord Denethor commands that the city defences must hold, so they must hold. Neither you nor I are commander, Madril."
"Faramir will stop this," said Madril at once. "None here doubt his authority to."
Rion nodded. "So we must get word to Faramir."
"And get word back," said Madril sombrely. "Reinforcements are worthless, unless they are in their hundreds. The order must be given for retreat, or we are all dead where we stand."
"And if possible, the signal should be sent from afar," agreed Rion. "Anyone who rides to Osgiliath now is doing nothing short of suicide."
"Agreed," said Rion. She took a deep breath. "It cannot be us that rides out, Madril. If we are to give this order, we must await doom with the others who remain."
"I quite agree," said Madril, a sad smile on his face – a face that looked two decades older than its years. "You are a fine soldier, Rion."
"As are you, my friend."
As the sun rose high towards noon, Rion watched from a window the young soldier they had selected ride towards Minas Tirith as though the devil was on his back. She no longer had any hope or true faith for this fight, but she did trust in Faramir, and she trusted his choices.
She had no idea that at that moment, Lord Denethor of Gondor was spitting bitter words to his son, in a twisted hope that Faramir, Captain of Gondor, would choose death.
Well, I hope you liked that chapter, and that the sheer weight of it made up a little for the wait! Please do let me know what you thought, I absolutely love hearing from you guys!
Now it's the new year, my schedule has SIGNIFICANTLY calmed down, so I will do my best to get up to weekly updates. Hopefully, they'll even be on time.
Until next time, take care, and thank you for reading!